Yevgeny pressed the last stub of his cigarette into the ashtray on the table and spoke.

“It would have been better if you’d shaken your hair out more. Colds during the changing seasons can be especially nasty.”

“……”

“In just six nights, you’ll be facing a winter that never changes all year round.”

“Is Castiya your homeland, sir?”

Rochelle carefully sat where he indicated. The closer distance made her tense up again. She pulled the overlapping collar of her robe tighter.

“To be precise, I was Breton until my childhood.”

“……”

“Well, since I became a refugee and went into exile, I suppose I should call Castiya my homeland. Just call me Yevgeny.”

Yevgeny… Rochelle quietly mouthed his name as if chewing it over, then lowered her gaze and gently touched the glass in front of her.

What did that old lady in the carriage say again? She had said Ivan was the eldest son of Alexander, who led the early revolution.

If that was true, then the man before her was certainly—

“Wasn’t it difficult to settle down on your own?”

Rochelle forced a calm tone as she asked. Yevgeny gave a faint smile, as if he’d heard a funny question, then softened his eyes.

“Fortunately, I was with my family.”

“Oh…”

“It was a stroke of luck. Thanks to the help of a good person, we boarded a cargo ship, but the real hardship began once we arrived in Castiya.”

“Am I talking too much?” He asked lightly, but continued on as if he had no intention of hearing her answer.

“My brother and I used to look at the frost-covered windows and long for our homeland and loved ones. After he joined the military following our father, we rarely saw each other.”

“Wait, just a moment, Yevgeny. Did you just say your brother?”

“Yes, I did.”

Just as she expected.

A man whose demeanor was both brusque and kind, delicate yet somehow crooked—a man with a mysterious, unreadable personality. He must be Ivan’s younger brother. Their strikingly similar faces, tall statures, sturdy bodies, low voices, and disciplined, soldier-like gestures. The ominous atmosphere surrounding them clearly marked them as family.

…Ivan.

The mere thought of him made anger boil up inside her. That’s why it was right for her to hate and be wary of this man who introduced himself as Yevgeny.

Faced with a reality too much to bear, Rochelle unconsciously furrowed her brow and clenched her fist so tightly that her nails dug into her skin.

But she realized too late that it was already impossible to suppress the emotions surging within her.

Why, she wondered, had fate brought this man before her? Why did it offer her hope, only to snatch it away again? Was it all just a cruel joke?

She wanted to jump up and run out immediately, but all around her was the endless open sea. The sound of the waves echoed constantly in her ears.

Her anxiety grew, pushing her to the brink. Rochelle trembled.

Could she really deceive this man completely? She couldn’t even guess. Worse, he was Ivan’s own brother. The sight of herself, clinging to life like a rat beside the sibling of the man who killed her family, was both pitiful and grotesque.

Forcing herself to stop trembling, she asked again.

“Then… are you also a revolutionary soldier?”

“Yes.”

He replied shortly, then smiled and filled Rochelle’s empty glass with liquor.

“Drink it all down. It’ll warm you up.”

“…Thank you.”

Unable to refuse, Rochelle gave an awkward smile and brought the glass to her lips.

The rich amber liquid he’d poured gave off a faint sweetness mixed with the sharpness of alcohol. The aroma at the tip of her nose made her whole body tingle as if paralyzed.

This is madness.

Rochelle quietly repeated to herself. This really was madness. She should run away, even now.

Yes, while the man was off guard, she’d slip away into the deep darkness, check if there were any lifeboats below, and escape to wherever the waves would take her—to the ends of the earth.

Lost in thought, Rochelle looked up, her cheeks flushed with faint hope. Yevgeny was looking down at her, swirling his glass lightly.

He gracefully stretched out his arm and clinked his glass against hers.

A clear ringing sound echoed. The whiskey in the glasses swirled gently. Watching the thick liquid slide down the glass walls, Yevgeny spoke softly.

“Let’s get along for the next six days.”

“The same to you,” Rochelle replied with a polite tone, then barely wet her lips with the drink. The fiery liquid slowly slid down into her stomach, burning her soft insides with pain.

Clutching her burning throat, she frowned silently.

When she looked up again, Yevgeny was still watching her.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said, gesturing like a gentleman.

***

It was impossible to tell whether the sun was rising or setting—the sky outside the window was nothing but gray. The chilly air formed tiny droplets on the glass.

The room was dead quiet. Yevgeny, buried in the soft mattress, quietly sat up, fixing his slightly open shirt.

At the edge of his vision, he saw the woman curled up asleep on the red carpet. Wrapped tightly in a thick comforter, only her face was visible as she slept deeply.

To think he’d had such a fierce struggle with that frail woman last night—and even lost. The thought was so absurd that Yevgeny let out a small laugh as he approached her and knelt on one knee.

“…Miss.”

“……”

When he whispered, the woman instinctively furrowed her brow. Her flushed cheeks deepened in color.

Yevgeny carefully studied her face—delicate, well-shaped eyebrows, a straight nose below them, and tightly pressed, full lips. Her cheeks were so red that it seemed impossible she was merely sleeping.

“Miss.”

He called her again, placing his hand on her forehead. Feeling her burning temperature, he sighed as if he’d expected it.

What a mess. If he’d known she was so weak, he wouldn’t have let her sleep on the floor. Now he had twice as many hassles to deal with.

Gritting his teeth, Yevgeny slid his arms under Rochelle’s knees and neck and lifted her up. Even wrapped in the comforter, she was unusually light—a fragile body that seemed as if it would blow away in the wind.

Turning, Yevgeny carried her over and laid her on the left side of the bed.

“…Tsk.”

He stared at the sleeping woman for a long moment, then slowly stood and left the cabin. As he pushed open the heavy door, a biting wind rushed in.

Normally, he wouldn’t have minded. But thinking of the woman’s feverish face, he hurriedly closed the door, then gave a wry laugh at himself.

Ridiculous.

He was basically a kind person, but not so altruistic as to inconvenience himself for others.

And yet, what was it about this woman that made him want to help her?

Yevgeny slowly blinked. The golden pupils in the glass reflected light in turn. Then he shifted his gaze and quietly watched the woman beyond. She was, for some reason, unusually captivating.

***

“Shall I bring it to your cabin?”

“I’ll have breakfast in the lounge. Toast and black coffee, nothing added, please.”

“Would you like the toast crispy? For jam, we have apple, strawberry, blueberry, and fig.”

“Crispy, please. No jam. Ah, and—”

Yevgeny called the waiter, who had turned to leave, and continued.

“Bring some fever medicine, please.”

“…Surely you’re not unwell, are you, Sir Yevgeny?”

The man holding the menu opened his eyes wide and exclaimed dramatically. Unfolding the napkin on the table and placing it on his lap, Yevgeny shook his head.

“No, just in case I need it.”

“Ah, I see. That’s a relief.”

The waiter, speaking with a hand on his chest in relief, soon turned and disappeared.

Seated in a quiet corner, Yevgeny blinked and looked around. Perhaps breakfast was a bit late; the passengers had already grabbed their trays and gone up on deck to relax.

In their place, several servants bustled around the lounge, clearing empty plates and wiping up fallen food.

It was a relief. He hated noise. Unlike his brother, Yevgeny had no interest in being the center of attention.

…Ivan.

And Christine.

As their names surfaced one by one in his mind, Yevgeny’s whole body trembled with anger. He hurriedly raised both hands to his face and rubbed it dry.

Yes, Ivan definitely took after their mother. Christine—a single, dazzling rose.

She drew in those intoxicated by her beauty, then pricked them with her sharp thorns, leaving everyone around her bloodied, leading them all to misery in the end.

Just then, the waiter arrived and began setting down plates with care. Yevgeny lowered his hands to his knees, deliberately ignoring the nausea. Clenching his jaw, he spoke calmly.

“…Bring me the newspaper, the one with news about Ivan.”

“What news do you mean, Sir Yevgeny? There’s been no further information since Sir Ivan collapsed.”

“That’s the one. Please bring me that newspaper.”